


Catharsis

by EloquentMxLoki



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Anxiety, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canon Trans Character, Depression, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Head Injury, Injury, Other, Trans, Trans Character, Transgender, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2377148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EloquentMxLoki/pseuds/EloquentMxLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This piece explores how Grell feels as a transwoman who is constantly misgendered and not offered any support. I felt it was important for me to write this but at the same time, I put so much into her and when she hurts in a way that is so familiar to me, I hurt too. I am a genderfluid person so this also reflects my experiences and is a very personal piece for me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> I really like expressing what Grell goes through as I have such a strong emotional connection to her. I hope you enjoy this little one shot and maybe I shall do some more if people are interested.

I tore it from my tender eyelid in a tired yank, the fiddly kind of motion that comes with latex coated fingers dulled of shine from a long day of work and soul searching. The false lash was a sombre conglomeration of blood, adhesive and broken promises. I scrunched my nose at the unhygienic abomination and flicked my hand to be rid of it, but much like all the abhorrently unwanted messes I had made in my life it chose to stick around. I felt my eyes begin to water, from enduring the irritations of a day of artificial enhancement I told myself, and I exhaled forcefully. 

My name is Grell Sutcliff and I am a woman.

I want to say I watched him stride in here, bold as ever with legs too long and that ever imposing scowl contorting his perfect features at the sight of my offensive red ensemble…

I want to say he seen me here, noticed the solemn slope of my shoulders, the way my head was hanging so my glasses barely clung to the tip of my nose and it caused him to pause…

I want to say a sigh left his lips, as he placed an immaculate gloved hand under my chin and forced my head up to look at him, to really look him in those devil’s eyes…

“You do not need those, Grell”

I want to say it soothed me but I was already violently shaking, sharp teeth set a-tremor and golden eyes burning with tears.

“B-ut Seb-a…Seb-as-“

I stuttered out, words I thought I’d choke on tried to claw their way out of my quickly closing throat.

But I DO need them. My lashes are too thin. They are TOO thin and it is all I can do to stop myself from HATING the person who stares back at me in the mirror. That MAN who keeps staring back at me in the mirror. That is NOT me. I NEED them. I need them to show you, to show you myself because you all cannot see.

You are blind!

I have beautiful long thick lashes framing these delicately painted eyes. Delicately painted eyes that I spend an hour each morning on, with a trembling hand and a determined crease to my brow. Do not paint it on too thick, I tell myself, or it will look like I am trying too hard. Do not spread it on too thin! I scream at myself, or they will see the man canvas beneath trying to peer out through your mascara and false lashes and feminine charm.

I felt an Adam’s apple quiver as I attempted to swallow and suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

Never before have these dainty heels felt so much like crimson skyscrapers as they did in that moment. I do not know how long I wavered on the spot, struggling to draw in shallow breathless gasps, before my vision clouded and the world fell out from under me.

Catch me~!

I want to say he moved with the grace and swiftness of a feline, to catch my damsel form as it gave up on the horrendous clash that was my gender and my sex…

I want to say he held me close as my very bones rattled with an unbearable traumatic shake and my swollen eyes ran rivers of black and red and brokenness…

I want to say he peeled the disposable lash from my fingertip leaving a chemical residue on my sleek black latex skin as I murmured inaudible mantras to myself willing reality to settle around me once more…

Red is the colour of fiery passion. Red is the colour of fiery passion. Red is the colour of fiery passion.

“You do not need this. You have always been a woman to me”

It rumbles through me, past the onslaught of tears welling upon my un-curved, unwanted bodyscape. Piercing pale flesh, rouged by the heat of anxiety and humiliation, it vibrates on the same frequency as my very soul…and I let it in.

After all of the sharp HE, HIS, HIMs like daggers thin, that struck me every day, in the back, in the side and in the throat…I was able to shake off my crimson coat riddled with assassins’ spines and let the words through.

I want to say I embraced those words of his, like all the roses I was owed for each vile pronoun spat at me in rapid fire every day of my wretchedly long life…

“You have always been a woman to me”

Catch me~!

Catch me~!

Catch me~!

But instead I fell.

The reality of it is that there is never anyone there to catch me.

CRACK!

Long red locks flutter in the air for an ethereal moment, before gravity drags my body to the cobblestone street with such malicious force I cry out. The truth batters my skull and for a moment I am not sure which moment is real…

I want to say…

I want to say…

“You’re never here to catch me”

I stare up at the night sky, an atmosphere viciously dissected by the hairline cracks creeping across my damaged glasses panes. The severe throbbing and pressure in the back of my cranium deceives me into seeing tails behind all of the stars and for a brief delusional moment I wonder, if I wish upon them all with my last breath, would this body finally reflect…

“Of course not”

The words sting as they slide from my too thin lips and trail down across my jaw too square, pooling behind my neck in a damp puddle of red…

Red is the colour of silent suffering . Red is the colour of silent suffering . Red is the colour of silent suffering .

Through the haze I realise I have punctured my lip with my clumsy razored incisors, but the prickle and trickle of self inflicted wounds and fluids are eclipsed completely by the intense pain I feel in knowing I will get up tomorrow and smile at them all like everything is fine.

If I could tear off this ill-fitting skin, so tight it suffocates me and restrains me within myself, I would. If I could rip sheets of flesh from this form, to reveal these grizzly insides of mine, would you all finally see me as I see me? If I could gouge out these eyes, so harshly judgmental I make myself weep until exhaustion, would I never have to see that man in the mirror ever again as long as I should live?

But I cannot.

“Get up, Sutcliff”

William T. Spears found me in that deserted alley, on the night of August 12th 1884 violently clawing at my face, broken and muttering hysterically.

Red is the colour of silent suffering. Red is the colour of silent suffering. Red is the colour of silent suffering.

He never referred to me as a male again.


End file.
